


don’t call it passion (don’t even call it sex)

by sedfierisentio



Category: Festival di Sanremo RPF
Genre: D/s undertones, Light Choking, M/M, Mention of drunk Sex, Miscommunication, Mutual Masturbation, Under-negotiated Kink, half of this is banter half of this is filth, kind of, onto the good stuff, pechino express 2017, sooooo remember the pechino express love bite? yes? so do i, this was supposed to be longer but quarantined killed any inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sedfierisentio/pseuds/sedfierisentio
Summary: Summary: It’s 2017, it’s hot in the Philippines, and Lauro gives Edo a love bite.Lauro’s eyes are scorchingly hot on his neck. Suddenly, the small expanse of skin where a love bite must be blooming   prickles, and then Lauro is asking, “Did you fuck her?”
Relationships: Achille Lauro | Lauro De Marinis/Boss Doms | Edoardo Manozzi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	don’t call it passion (don’t even call it sex)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be much longer, but this quarantine is testing me. I did my best. I don't own any of the characters and obviously I don't know anything about the specifics of the relationships mentioned or described in this body of work. Also! The kink depicted in this fic is severely under-negotiated, so pleasepleaseplease ALWAYS NEGOTIATE ALL KINK STUFF AND BE SAFE!

This is when it happens. The cameras are off. He’s unpacking in a bedroom, where he’s he’s got a bed with a mattress, covers, and pillows, which is more of a luxury he’s learnt to expect. He’s bent to an awkward angle to dig out his night clothes from his bag. Just in the other room there’s a _shower_. He’s envisioning the cold shower he’s about to enjoy, the absolute _highlight_ of these last couple of days, the pinnacle of comfort, a thing of beauty, he’d dare say, when Lauro decides to, metaphorically, drag him back to earth by the hair, and quite viciously so. As he would.

Because, suddenly, Lauro is asking, “Did you fuck her?”

Edoardo looks up, stomach plummeting to the fucking floor. Lauro’s eyes are scorchingly hot on his neck. Suddenly, the small expanse of skin where a love bite must be blooming prickles. Fucking Houston, we got a fucking problem. He can hear the Kill Bill sirens in his brain. He clears his voice. “Why?” he says. “Were you interested?”

For a moment, Lauro seems to hesitate, and it’s a terrifying realisation, because Lauro _never_ hesitates. He’s looking at him, still, unwavering, unforgiving, breath even. Then, he’s saying, “She did a terrible job, if I may so.”

“You may _not_ ,” he says, tries to cut it short, whatever. Where are his sweatpants? Where’s his towel? Where is God when he needs him? “Drop it.”

“The mark is barely there,” Lauro continues. His voice is light, taunting. “You can’t even see it properly.”

“Yet, you managed to spot it just fine,” Edoardo spits out. This is a train derailing at full speed and he’s about to stop the incoming disaster _now_. He finally manages to dig out the pair of old sweatpants he’s using to sleep and finally straightens his back to face Lauro properly. All, what?, sixty-five kilos of him at best. “Stop it or I swear I will fucking deck you.”

“Stop?” Lauro asks. Sweat is glistening on the hollow of his throat. “You never asked me that before. I remember you asking to keep going, as a matter of fact.”

Edoardo’s breath is punched out of his lungs. He feels hot, impossibly so, hotter than he’s felt yet in the unbearable temperatures of this country. Suddenly, the air’s sizzling, electric. Lauro’s eyes are still fixed on him. He knows this way of looking. He knows this gaze. He knows this because we’ve been here before.

The first time it happened, when Lauro had whispered, _It doesn’t have to_ mean _anything_ , he’d wondered, but hadn’t voiced it, how could a hand wrapped around his cock mean nothing at all, when it didn’t feel like any of the other hands that had been there before. It had felt good, then, though, and the thoughts had quieted down quickly. His wondering had become moaning; his doubts white noise, in the background of surprising, dizzying pleasure. It had been straight after an orgy of sorts, mind you, so he’d blamed it on the collective, er, excitement. 

The next day, he’d looked at himself in the mirror and thought, as he applied _kohl_ on his waterline, that a hand is hand. Lauro had, admittedly, really elegant hands, with long, slim fingers. Perhaps he was right; it didn’t have to mean anything, per se. He could just ignore the knowledge that this hand, in particular, was attached to an arm, which was attached to a body, which had a cock attached to it. No big deal. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t had sex with different people in the same room, as if he hadn’t seen that dick before, both limp and hard, so he could just live the rest of his life as if nothing had happened.

Turns out, no, he couldn’t. Because Lauro wouldn’t fucking let him. 

Then it had happened again, his own hand wrapped around a strange cock, one that definitely wasn’t his, and that had been a different level of unsettling. There had been alcohol involved, and Lauro’s lips on his, and a loose, careful hand on his throat, not pushing, not squeezing, just there, grounding; above all, though, there had been alcohol. It was the alcohol. Whatever. There was alcohol the third time around, too, and the fourth, and they have never addressed it, have never talked about is sober. He doesn’t see why they should be addressing it now.

Then, Lauro is taking two steps forward, to stand just in front him, and he can’t _breathe_. All air’s been sucked out of this room. “Lauro,” he says, warningly. “I will punch you in the face.”

“Does she know,” Lauro continues, ignoring him, “that you like to be told what to do, sometimes? That you like the straining, the struggle of it?” He reaches out, his fingers grazing against his love bite. They stay there, then. When he doesn’t say anything, Lauro presses his thumb against the bruised skin and, _fuckshitfuck_ , the dull pain of it goes straight to his cock. “Tell me. Does she know?” 

He croaks out, “She’ll learn.”

“We’re in luck,” Lauro says, “because I know that already.” Both his hands move to grab his hips, squeezing gently, and then, slowly — they move to still at the fly of his jeans a. “Do you _not_ want this? It’s not like we have to do anything.”

He doesn’t _not_ want to get off, is the thing. His body has been here before, he can feel himself respond to the way Lauro is touching him, looking at him. But they’re sober. It’ll _mean_ something if they keep going now.

“I smell,” Edoardo finds himself saying. “I am sweaty.”

His cock is half-hard. He hates male biology.

“So am I,” Lauro concedes. His thumbs press against the taut patch of skin above the line of his jeans. “I like the way you smell. Do you _not_ want to do this?” His voice changes dramatically, from tentalising to matter-of-fact, straight to the point. “We don’t _have_ to do anything, you know. But we’ve done this before and we liked it, so, why not?”

Why not? Edo’s thinking, _I like the way you smell. I like the way you smell. I like_ — “I want,” he manages to say. “Yes. I do want it.”

He realises, now, that Lauro’s pause just a few moments ago was never hesitation. He was assessing, like a predator ready to jump, a cobra readying to spike. His mouth latches at his neck, right where the love bite was fading, tongue sweeping against it. He bites down, no gentleness to it, teeth scraping against the salty skin, and _sucks_. The suction goes, of course, bypasses his brain and goes straight to his cock. His hands make a quick work of the zip and then shove his jeans down to his mid-thighs. Just Edoardo’s own hands move - before his own brain has a chance to catch up - to work Lauro’s own jeans down and take his dick out, Lauro pauses to breathe over the sensitive skin of his neck and orders, “Spit on your hand.”

“I wasn’t about to jerk you off dry, dickhead,” Edoardo retorts, voice cracking at the end, when Lauro decides to give a particularly hard suck. Fucking _hell_. 

Lauro, the bastard, bites him in retaliation.“Spit on your hand and jerk the both of us off,” he continues, just a whisper, “and I’ll stop doing this when you make me come.”

What _this_ is becomes clear once teeth sink back into the skin of his neck. Breathing heavily, Edoardo spits on his hand, hips bucking, and wraps it against both of their cocks. The drag of Lauro’s cock again his is dizzying, the feeling of Lauro’s smooth skin intoxicating. It doesn’t come as a shock to him that they’re as in tune with each other sexually as they are in any other aspect of their lives, even when alcohol isn’t involved. It’s still—not on the side of painful, quite, but rough, so he thumbs at the head of Lauro’s dick, collecting his precome, and Lauro—he groans against his neck, obscene, the sound spurring him on.

Lauro’s tongue flicks against the bruise blooming on his neck, alternates small, painful bites, with soothing laps and hard, purposeful sucking. His neck is going to be a mess, a bitch to hide in this sweltering heat, he thinks, and he squeezes at the base of their cocks, pumps harder, faster. This is it - it’s the combination of humiliation and helplessness that does it for him, the way Lauro can play him, and it’s going to be over soon. His own moans sound afar, like he’s living an out of body. 

Lauro wraps one of his hands around his throat and squeezes. He keeps squeezing at the sides of his neck, just above the spot he’s ruining. He squeezes, and squeezes, and Edo knows he could say stop and Lauro would, in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t want him to. He’s whining, he’s distantly aware of it. He’s counting, _… nine, ten, eleven, twelve_ , Lauro relents the grasp and he breathes in. He squeeze again, and stops, and starts again and—it feels good, feels fucking amazing—every moment he’s short of breath feels like he’s about to _fly_. He can feel the familiar heat pooling in his stomach as the glides becomes smoother, blurts of precome easing his frantic movements, and then Lauro squeezes one last time, with more strength and intent as he sucks on his neck, and Edoardo thinks _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ and comes so hard he sees stars.

His hand keeps pumping up and down, almost on its own, and until Lauro moans, muffled, against him, and comes with one last flick of his wrist, thick white strips covering his fingers. Then Lauro’s kissing him hard, hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs grazing his cheekbones with gentleness, care, in contrast with the way they just got off together. His teeth bite his bottom lip, tongue moving against his one last time before he pulls back.

Lauro smiles. “You might want to hide that tomorrow.”

Edoardo groans. “I fucking hate you,” he mutters. His hands feels sticky, and the room must smell like sex and come, so much for repaying the hospitality they’ve been welcomed with. “I feel disgusting.”

“So do I,” Lauro says. “Let’s do something about it in the shower.”

And Edo follows.


End file.
